Jamie hurried back to the kitchen and opened the Aga door to inspect the huge side of beef that was sizzling nicely. The roast potatoes were nearly done. She’d give them five more minutes then move them to the warming oven.
She opened the cutlery drawer to start laying the table. There would just be enough room; Hugo and Sebastian would have to squash up on stools. They could get down as soon as they were finished, then everyone could spread out a bit over cheese and coffee.
It was incredible to think who was going to be sitting round the table that lunchtime. A few months ago, Jamie wouldn’t have believed it was possible. Herself and Rod for a start, ostensibly host and hostess. They were going through a complicated purchase of Bucklebury Farm from Jack – the solicitors were working out the most tax-efficient way of avoiding death duties and capital gains. Rod had sold Owl’s Nest and paid off Bella, which had given him some cash to help fund the purchase. The conversion of the stables was being underwritten by Lettice: she had insisted, on the proviso that one of them would always be available to her and Jack whenever they came back from South Africa. For their relationship had blossomed from a friendship into a romance, and there was even the threat of wedding bells. Jamie was still surprised that the prospect of Lettice Harkaway as her step-mother was actually a pleasant one – she’d grown very fond of her over the past few months.
There were going to be six Draces at the table. Not least Zoe and Christopher, with the two boys. Having emerged from her Chardonnay-soaked crisis, Zoe had found her métier at last. Rod had taken out a lease on an empty shop at the bottom of Corve Street, and had opened a showroom, which Zoe was running. Though she was no great cook even now, Zoe knew that a fuck-off kitchen was an essential status symbol in this day and age even if you only ever paid homage to St Michael in it. And once she applied herself to it, she had a good eye. Rod trained her rigorously in the pitfalls and dangers of kitchen design, so she didn’t go too far down the road selling something that was totally impractical. And she revelled in sourcing the accessories – tiles, table linen, Italian coffee machines, beautiful crystal. She liked to joke that she’d always been good at buying… And of course, once she had come down off her high horse and discarded the idea that everyone in Shropshire was a provincial oaf, she made friends. And didn’t obsess quite so much about her roots and her shoes.
Even more heart-warming than Zoe and Christopher’s presence at the lunch table was Rosemary and Hamilton’s. No one knew quite what had brought about Hamilton’s emergence from Havelock House, but his transformation was nothing short of a miracle. He had improved so much that he was actually able to go back to work at Drace’s. Not full-time, just on a part-time consultancy basis, because he and Rosemary were spending quality time together. The resulting change in Rosemary was quite dramatic – from a shadow of her former self she had radiated into a sparkling stalwart of the hunt committee, the parish council and the gardening club.
Then there was Claudia and Olivier, the surprise love-match. Though when everyone found out, it was obvious they were perfect for each other. It was Claudia who had forced Olivier to reunite with his father. Claudia who, despite being the trickiest daughter on the earth, actually had an incredibly strong sense of family and had demanded to meet Eric. And to Olivier’s surprise, the two of them got on like a house on fire. Somehow, Claudia brought out the best in Eric – perhaps because she met him head on, rather than finding his ways irksome. And on seeing his showroom she had decided, with her ruthless streak underlined with practicality, that this was the answer to her and Olivier’s prayers. After the Mille Miglia in May, they were going to take over the showroom. Claudia relished the prospect of being head of sales, while Olivier learned the nuts and bolts of buying from his father.
And although nobody else knew it, Eric had written Jack a letter of condolence mixed with apology for what he saw as his appalling behaviour all those years ago, a letter that made it clear that he never expected them to be friends again, but underlined his respect for Jack and his grief that his bad behaviour had cost him their friendship…
‘It would be only too easy to blame the heat of the midday sun and too much champagne,’ he wrote in his sloping script. ‘But it was a moment of selfish foolishness on both of our parts. There was never any danger that I would take Louisa away from you. She loved you, and I always envied you that love…’
And as a final postscript, Eric offered to fund the repair of the totalled Bugatti. He looked forward, he said, to the prospect of him and Jack watching Olivier on the racetrack again next season.
Rod came through into the kitchen, washed and scrubbed and bearing two glasses of champagne. Jamie declined. If she started drinking now, lunch would never be served.
‘You’ve got to,’ insisted Rod. ‘It’s a bit special.’
Jamie was puzzled. Rod wasn’t usually precious about his wines. Maybe he was more keyed up than usual because they had so many guests. But there was no one he had to impress. She shrugged and took the glass, taking a sip.
‘Lovely,’ she said, and went to put it down on the side when she realized Rod was grinning at her most peculiarly.
‘What?’ she demanded.
‘Go on, have another sip.’
She rolled her eyes and took another slurp. As she tipped the glass, something slid up the side and she nearly swallowed it. She put the glass down hastily and peered inside. She poked a finger in and fished out…
A ring. A gold ring with a pear-shaped diamond.
Rod suddenly looked nervous.
‘I don’t know,’ he said, ‘if you could bear the stigma of becoming a Deacon. I won’t be in the least offended if you keep your own name. But I would like you to become my wife.’
Jamie smiled.
‘I can’t think of anything that would make me happier,’ she said. ‘And I’ve got no intention of keeping my own name. I’ve been practising writing Mrs Jamie Deacon for years.’
Being drenched in champagne, of course, the ring slid on to the third finger of her left hand easily. And when Hugo and Sebastian hurtled through the door moments later, they were disgusted to find Rod and Jamie kissing in front of the Aga, and the roast potatoes burned to a crisp.
Table of Contents
Title Page
Copyright Page
Acknowledgements
1
2
3
4
5
6
7
8
9
10
11
12
13
14
15
16
17
18
19
20
21
22
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25
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Wild Oats Page 42
